


Respite

by tamed_untranslatable



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Hotel Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:15:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27446995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamed_untranslatable/pseuds/tamed_untranslatable
Summary: “Well, we’ll have to get cozy,” John said, eying the bed – less than half as wide as their bed at home.Sherlock shrugged, half-smiling. “We usually do.”
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 102





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> me, wearing glasses and looking at a butterfly: is this the bed sharing trope?
> 
> Unbeta'd.

“There,” John said, as he spotted a sign on the side of the road. “There’s a guesthouse in this one.”

“Good,” Sherlock muttered. John could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

They’d been out on a murder case out in some tiny village up north. The circumstances of it were strange enough to tempt them out to it – a locked room case, with the victim found dead of a gunshot wound in his study, with no one else around at his ancient manor house – but both Sherlock and John had been sure it would be a quick solve from the crime scene. Fewer suspects, and fewer places to hide evidence, and all that. But when they’d gotten there, there had been almost nothing to go on, and they’d worked well into the evening to try to dig up _some_ clue that could point them in the right direction. Only hours after the sky had gone dark was Sherlock finally forced to admit that they wouldn’t find anything more here, and they’d have to start again with interviewing the victim’s relatives and old friends in London. And both he and John were far too tired to drive their rented car all the way back tonight.

Sherlock pulled off the motorway and into the town, following the signs that indicated the way to the guesthouse. There was almost no activity on the street, and all the businesses seemed to be closed already.

“Well, it’s something,” John said, as Sherlock rounded the corner, and they saw the tiny light in the window below a rustic-looking sign. “Probably not the nicest place, but…”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock said, in almost a sigh. “Go on, I need to park round the corner.”

John laid a quick, reassuring hand on his shoulder before opening the door and stepping out onto the pavement. He looked up at the flaking paint on the sign, as Sherlock drove off to the car park; _Almsford Inn, est. 1824._

John shouldered his way inside. There was a woman behind the front desk whose face was buried in a romance novel, and she started a little at the sound.

“Oh, good evening,” she said, straightening up. She seemed almost surprised to see somebody this late.

“Hello.” John approached the counter. “I need a room for tonight, a double?”

“Oooh.” The woman made a guilty sort of grimace, and sucked the air in through her teeth. “We’re actually all full for our doubles tonight, I’m so sorry.”

John’s heart sank. “Oh, Christ,” he sighed. He bowed his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Sorry,” the woman said again, and sounded it. “Normally we wouldn’t be, we just happen to have a few couples up for a holiday this weekend, they come every year.”

John was trying to do the math in his head, of how far away the nearest town would be that had somewhere to stay. His mind already felt too foggy to manage it.

“We _do_ have a single still available, if you’re interested,” he heard her offer.

John sighed, thinking.

The bell chimed as Sherlock stepped into the foyer after him.

“Hey.” John stepped away from the counter a little bit. “All they have is a single – no double rooms.”

Sherlock gave a soft groan. “Really?” His arm automatically slid around John’s waist. “Twin bed?” He asked the woman.

“Yes.” She paused for a bit, then added. “Um – I might be able to dig out an air mattress from storage –”

“No, thank you,” Sherlock cut her off. He looked back at John. “Fine. We’ll manage.”

“Yeah,” John said, trying to stifle a yawn. He had absolutely no desire to get back in the car. He turned back to the counter. “Alright, the single will be fine.”

“Alright, then,” the woman said, looking a bit relieved. She quickly took their names, then grabbed a key off the wall behind her. “Do you have any bags?”

John shook his head – they hadn’t planned on an overnight trip. She nodded, and led them down a narrow hallway to a room with a green wooden door, told them what time breakfast would be served, and wished them goodnight, with hospitality far cheerier than what they were in the mood for.

Sherlock closed the door behind them and pulled off his coat. John looked around the room; it was fairly spacious, but mostly empty. The small bed was shoved up against the wall, and there was a mirror and a chest of drawers on the other side. The walls were stone – it was an old building – and they curved inward into two arched windows looking into a small, walled-off garden. Next to the bed, another wooden door led into a tiny bathroom.

“Well, we’ll have to get cozy,” John said, eying the bed – less than half as wide as their bed at home.

Sherlock shrugged, half-smiling. “We usually do.”

John smiled too – Sherlock’s arm was outstretched, and John leaned into him. He sighed again, feeling some of the weary rawness ebb away. Having Sherlock close to him was always a comfort. A blessed familiarity.

“I guess we hardly ever use the whole space in our bed, anyway,” John said.

“Yeah,” Sherlock said. He pressed his lips against John’s temple. “It’s just one night.”

John nodded against him. He leaned his head into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. The warmth of him was far too relaxing. He was in danger of falling asleep where he stood.

“Shower?” Sherlock asked.

“You go first.” John craned his neck to check out the inside of the bathroom. “I don’t think we’re both going to fit in there.”

Sherlock untangled himself from John to check. John had never seen a tinier bathroom – there was barely any space to stand between the shower and the toilet.

“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah, go on.” John _would_ quite have liked to join him, but he didn’t really feel like navigating so many doors and obstacles in such a small space. He just wanted to lie down.

Sherlock squeezed his hand, then tugged off his jacket and headed inside. John collapsed onto the bed, and pulled off his shoes.

It was one of those cheap, overly springy mattresses. The duvet wasn’t exactly soft, but the sheets were clean and pressed. John tugged off his jumper and his jeans, and the relief was immediate – a kind of insignificant luxury you can only feel grateful for after an especially long day, when suddenly even a shoddy hotel room feels like a relief.

He didn’t have anything to change into, so John crawled under the sheets in just his pants and shuffled up as close to the wall as he could. There wasn’t much space left, but it would have to do. The two of them were used to sleeping cuddled close together, in any case.

He replied to a few texts while he waited for Sherlock; he could hear the steady rhythm of the water, and heard him sigh a couple times as he relaxed into it, washing away the irritations of the day. Normally, a night after a long case was one of John’s favorite times – either with a lovely late-night dinner, or adrenaline-fueled post-case sex at Baker Street. This case today had been far too frustrating for either of those things, though, and Sherlock had been running around in the spiral of his own mind for hours. John supposed it was fitting that all they had to come down from that with was an old guest house in the middle of nowhere.

Sherlock finally came out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist.

“There, your turn,” he said.

John gave a soft little groan. “Nah, I’m good actually.”

Sherlock smirked. “Really?”

“Yeah, I’m not standing up again.”

Sherlock gave an endearing little chuckle. “Fair enough. It might relax you, though.”

“What – have I not been relaxed enough today?”

“You tell me, but I wouldn’t guess so, after ‘maybe the crime scene is haunted.’”

John burst into a low chuckle. “Shut up and come here.”

Sherlock approached the bed, and paused, eying it. It looked even smaller when it was occupied.

“Come on, there’s room.” John shifted upward on the mattress, and held out his arm to him.

Sherlock scrambled in awkwardly, dropping the towel and trying to pull the sheets over himself without stealing them all from John. John rolled on his side so Sherlock could slot into him, and wrapped his arms around him to pull him closer.

They were able to settle into each other, although there wasn’t really any room on either side of them. They wouldn’t really be able to move at all in their sleep.

“There we go – oof.” John tangled his weary limbs around him. Sherlock’s skin was warm from the shower, his hair still damp.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah – bit snug.”

Sherlock shifted backwards a fraction, so John didn’t have to be pressed up so much against the wall. John found himself giggling a little, right into Sherlock’s face.

“It’s like being back at uni.”

Sherlock scoffed. “It's worse. I must have been smaller, then.” He shifted downward slightly, so he could nestle his face into the crook of John’s neck. That helped, gave them a bit more room. “Though it’s easier when you’re alone.”

“Hey, I usually was too.” John ran his hands slowly up and down Sherlock’s back. He was still tense.

“Can’t imagine why,” Sherlock smirked. “This is a proper love nest.”

John giggled again. He let his legs tangle with Sherlock’s. “Are your feet hanging off the mattress?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock said, and he was laughing now, too. “Almost, though.” The only reason they weren’t was because they were bent, hooked around John’s.

“Oh, God,” John sighed. “Good thing you’re a snugglebug.”

“As if you’re not,” Sherlock grinned against John’s collarbone.

“Yeah,” said John. He was right. Feeling the warmth of Sherlock’s skin pressed against his, all along their bodies, John finally felt comfortable.

“See, we don’t need luxuries like a _double bed,_ or _clothes_ , or _heat_ ,” Sherlock mumbled. He was settling in properly now, his mind looping towards jokes in his weariness. “We can always rough it out here in the wilderness.”

“We sure can.” John was feeling it too, that sensation of his mind and body being softened up by oncoming sleep. “Who needs space, when you have a brilliant man to keep you warm?”

Sherlock gave a soft snuffle of quiet laughter. “Next time I’ll get us home in time,” he murmured, gently.

“Hey, I don’t care.” John stroked soothing circles around Sherlock’s back, and dropped a kiss on the skin closest to his lips – which happened to be the middle of his scrunched-up brow, right above his nose. “As long as you’re here.”

He felt Sherlock smile against his neck, and his brow smoothed out. He was soft and contented, his warmth blissful and beautiful. John let it drift over him like a gentle wave, and carry him off into sleep.

***

John didn’t feel himself being woken up, but suddenly he was. There was a low howl coming from the direction of the window, and the sound of tapping and rustling. John felt goosebumps break out all across his arms.

He looked up to see that the window had swung open, and a harsh wind was coming through it. One of the trees outside was rapping its branches against the glass. John could hear the air _whoosh_ ing around through it, and farther off, between the stone buildings beyond the garden.

John immediately felt chills run up his body, and he began moving to extract himself from Sherlock, so he could close the window. Before he could, though, a particularly strong gust burst through and pushed it even farther open, and its pane smacked against the wall.

“Christ.”

Sherlock was awake too, John realized. He could feel him already chilly, before Sherlock quickly rolled out of the bed and headed over. He latched the window shut, and a low rumble of thunder rolled over the building from somewhere far away.

“Bloody hell,” John murmured, pulling the covers tighter around him.

“I’m glad we weren’t driving in this,” Sherlock said softly. He stared out the window, trying to track the storm. His naked silhouette, illuminated by a pale sliver of moon, was unearthly gorgeous.

“Yeah,” said John. “What time is it?”

“Don’t know. Still late.” It was still dark outside the window, no light from the horizon breaking through the gloom.

Sherlock lingered there for a few more seconds, then returned. John pulled him back into bed. In his darkness-disoriented hurry, though, he forgot how close he was to the wall – he scooted back a bit too far, and smacked his head against it.

“Ow!” A dull throb spread out from the back of his head, and he grabbed at it with his hand.

“Sorry, sorry,” Sherlock said in an urgent whisper. “Are you alright?”

“Oof – yeah, I’m fine.” He was still trying to pull Sherlock closer with his free arm.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” Sherlock reached up to cradle John’s skull, like he was trying to shield him from further harm.

“It’s fine, I’m okay.” John said. He was, it had just taken him by surprise. He felt himself giggling softly again. The absurdity of this whole night was getting to him, a bit.

“C’mere, you’re cold,” John said. He turned on his side, and wrapped his arms tight around Sherlock’s back.

“’m fine,” Sherlock said. “You’re warm.”

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s neck again. John could feel his low sigh of contentment against his jaw.

John shuffled in closer, too, and kissed him on the cheek. It must have still been cold in the room, but John immediately forgot about it. Sherlock was quickly warming up against him, in the tiny cocoon of sheets tucked around them. There was something so wonderful about that, the feeling of a shelter against the elements – safe and out of reach of the howling wind outside.

Sherlock tilted his head upward, and kissed at John’s jawline. His warm breath tickled John’s face. John smiled, humming a little in the back of his throat.

He kissed at Sherlock’s cheek again, the clumsily landed another one down at his chin. Finally, he found his lips, which were quirked gently upwards. They kissed slowly, lazily. Sherlock’s fingers were threading through the hair at the nape of John’s neck, and it sent affectionate warmth all down his spine.

John gave a little sigh into his mouth, kissed him again. It was nice, having him pressed this close, having to hold him so tightly to keep them both in place on the narrow mattress. They laid there, sharing indulgent, blissful kisses, and John expected to let them carry them both off back into slumber. But now, he actually didn’t much feel like going back to sleep. This was too lovely.

He pressed in a little further, and Sherlock made a soft noise into John’s lips. He seemed to be thinking the same thing, and wrapped his arm around John’s shoulder, pulling their bodies flush up against each other. John’s heart thumped happily in his chest. He pushed his tongue in to stroke along Sherlock’s, to feel the exquisite heat of his mouth on his, and Sherlock pushed in too, and met him.

Sherlock shuffled upward a bit to kiss him more deeply. John’s arm snaked around his waist. Sherlock was leaning into him, and John shifted a bit forward so he could roll onto his back and pull Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock followed him down, settling onto John’s body like the world’s warmest blanket. Everything outside the little sanctuary of the two of them didn’t seem to exist, anymore.

John hummed, contentedly. He let Sherlock’s legs slot between his, and he could feel him all along his body, now. Sherlock, not breaking the kiss, shifted his hips a little to pull him closer still, and John felt his cock, half-hard, press up against his.

John let out a small gasp – he hadn’t even realized that tension had been pooling in between his legs. But his cock was slowly stiffening, pressing up against the heat of Sherlock’s, nothing but John’s pants between them.

Sherlock gave a low, appreciative moan. “John…”

“Yeah,” John replied breathlessly. Sherlock’s breath was hot and wet against his lips. Slowly, John managed to blink his eyes open and find Sherlock’s, aglow in the darkness.

“You know, suddenly, I’m not the least bit tired,” John murmured.

He felt Sherlock’s lips quirk up at the corner.

“Neither am I.”

John grinned, his heart singing in his chest, and they fell back into the kiss. John let his hands trail down Sherlock’s back, and shifted his hips so that their cocks would rub up against each other. He groaned, a low sound from deep in his chest – he could feel Sherlock getting hard against him, and it was stoking the quickly-growing fire in his belly.

Sherlock let out a moan of his own, and reached down to tug at John’s pants. John lifted his hips, and Sherlock shucked them off in one fluid motion. Then he settled back down over him, the weight of him pressing John into the mattress, and slowly rutted their bare cocks together.

“Mmm,” John let out, a breathy half-moan, half-sigh. He dipped his hands lower, and grabbed two handfuls of Sherlock’s gorgeous arse. Sherlock hummed appreciatively, and canted his hips forward. 

A jolt of arousal shot up John’s spine. He hooked his calves around Sherlock’s, to bring him in close. They had more room this way, actually, with Sherlock on top of him.

“Mmm, oh, Sherlock,” John murmured against him.

“John,” was Sherlock’s breathless reply. “ _John._ ”

He moved away from John’s lips to trail kisses down his neck. John threw his head back, giving him access.

“Oh, yeah,” he let out, in a low whisper. Sherlock’s hands were warm on his shoulders as he lovingly worked down towards John’s collarbone, still thrusting against him oh so slowly.

“You feel amazing,” Sherlock murmured.

“You feel like home,” John whispered back.

There was a warmth in John’s chest now, not just from the heat of Sherlock’s body. He wasn’t just comfort, he was John’s true north, his light in the dark. He could make anywhere feel perfect. Together, they _were_ perfect, no matter where, no matter what.

Sherlock laid a heavy kiss to the centre of John’s collarbone, and John could feel the emotion in it. _You’re wonderful,_ it said. _I love you._

John hummed, blissful contentment unspooling all through his body, fueling his arousal. He pressed his hips up higher, needing more friction, needing more heat. Their cocks slid together, gloriously, and John’s breath hitched.

He felt Sherlock gasp against his chest. “John…”

“Yeah, love.”

Sherlock picked up his pace a little, frotting harder against him and sending jolts of pleasure all the way up John’s body. John felt heat building under his skin, waves of heat licking up his torso, down his legs, up his arms to the tips of his fingers.

“Oh, you’re so good, Sherlock,” he said in a desperate whisper.

Sherlock moaned in response, low, guttural, and sexy. “You are.”

John let out a little huff of laughter, which turned into a breathless gasp as Sherlock gave a deep, long thrust against him, and his torso began to tremble with arousal.

“Oh – _sweetheart_ ,” John gasped out. “Yeah – that’s it – oh, you’re amazing –”

Sherlock shifted up to John’s lips again. “I love you.”

“I love you,” John replied, thickly.

They kissed, hard with want, but slow, and tender. John splayed a hand across Sherlock’s back, holding on tight, as tight as he could.

Sherlock’s entire body was rocking against him – John could feel muscles clenching up against him, arousal flowing back and forth between them, everywhere they were touching. He was exquisite, John couldn’t get enough of touching him. He could feel his own cock dripping, sliding up and down Sherlock’s length, and the flames in his abdomen flared up higher, white hot, burning with need.

John reached down between their bodies, and closed his hand around both their cocks. Sherlock choked out a deep moan that set John’s every nerve alight.

“ _Oh_.” Sherlock panted as he kept thrusting, into John’s grip. The friction was immediately more intense, and John sucked in a low breath.

“Oh, _God._ ”

He twisted his wrist, and they moaned again. Sherlock kissed him again, sloppier now, mouth wide, breathing hot and wet onto his face.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured into it. “God, you feel so good.”

“More,” Sherlock crooned into his mouth, and that low baritone shot straight down John’s spine, making his toes curl.

He swiped his thumb over the head of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock gave a ragged gasp in response. John swirled precome over the tip, then twisted downward, slicking them both.

Sherlock groaned and twitched his hips forward in response, smearing some of the fluid onto John’s belly. John didn’t stop, rubbing teasing circles around Sherlock’s cockhead until he had enough to slide his hand easily up them both. The sensation was amazing – it always was – the heat of him, the gorgeous intimacy of this kind of touch, the desperate way Sherlock was pushing into his hand, wanting more of him. And then there was the look in his eyes, hovering above him and clear as anything even in the dark, hooded with arousal, flooded with longing, with awe, and with love.

John pulled him down for another kiss as he worked his hand over both their cocks, thrusting his own hips upward into Sherlock’s rhythm. Sherlock’s chest was pressed against his as they rocked together, his shoulders tensed with effort, the muscles of his arse clenching and unclenching. The tiny bedframe creaked softly with the movement, ringing out in the quiet.

“ _Yes,_ oh, love –” John choked out. His mind was flooded with sensation, his ability to form coherent sentences diminishing by the second.

“Mmm, John,” Sherlock breathed back, just as overcome. John gave a sharp twist on the upstroke, and Sherlock keened into his mouth. “ _Oh – yes_ , just like that…”

John could feel himself speeding toward the edge, and he knew Sherlock wasn’t far behind. They were both shaking, sweat trickling down their bodies, the desire flowing between them ramping up to boiling point. John tightened his grip, and wanked them faster. He heard himself making frantic moans against Sherlock’s lips, but all he could feel was Sherlock, his touch, his cock against his.

“Mmm, yeah, come on, Sherlock,” John whispered. He kissed blindly at Sherlock’s bottom lip, his mind whirling. “Come for me, let me feel you.”

“ _Yes –_ come with me,” Sherlock said. He dipped his head to smear his lips along John’s jaw, teeth grazing the skin just below his ear. “Come on.”

John's entire body was alight, and he thrust up into Sherlock, slotted into him, pressed up against as much of him as he could. He sped up his strokes, and they were both crying out, gasping, panting, until John gave an expert flick of his wrist on the upstroke and they were spilling out over each other, coating John’s hand, the heat overwhelming them and scorching out of them in a brilliant flame. John saw stars, his nerves sparking with pleasure, and Sherlock kept thrusting against him as he rode it out, hot and wet and gorgeous, relishing every moment.

John sank into the mattress as the tremors coursed through them both. His hips twitched and sputtered, then finally stilled, and Sherlock was heavy on him again, panting against his neck.

John extracted his hand from between them, wiped it off on the nearest sheet corner and tossed it away, then slid his arms up to hold Sherlock tight around the shoulders.

He turned his head and peppered kisses all over his face, along his jaw, on his cheek, down to his chin. Soon Sherlock raised his head and kissed him full on, slowly, and deeply. All his tenderness and hazy contentment flowed from his mouth into John’s, then trailed down to the glowing embers of adoration in his chest.

The still air in the room settled over them again; the howling wind echoed outside against the window, but couldn’t needle its way in. Beneath the sheets, their warm bodies, their tangle of limbs, was their own private haven. John could feel Sherlock’s heart beating against his chest, and there was nothing but pure, elated happiness in his own.

He broke the kiss off gently, sighing in the space between them. “That was amazing.”

“Mhm.” Sherlock smiled softly, kissed him once more, then shuffled downward to nose his way into the crook of John’s neck.

John sighed, the warmth in his chest swelling up. He pressed his nose into Sherlock’s hair and closed his eyes, breathed him in.

“I guess it works as a love nest after all,” John muttered.

Sherlock gave a little chuckle, low in his chest. “Better than uni?”

“Absolutely.” John let his fingers trace slow circles over Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock hummed, and kissed at John’s neck.

“Good,” he said, quietly. “I love you.”

“I love you,” John whispered. “I really, really love you.”

He felt Sherlock’s gentle smile against his chest.

It was still pitch dark outside. A low boom of thunder sounded from over the hills, and John’s eyelids began to sag with sleep again.

“’m not moving,” Sherlock muttered, wearily.

“Don’t you dare,” John whispered, with a soft grin. If Sherlock was comfortable sleeping with his whole body directly on top of him, so was John. It was perfect. Better than any blanket.

John closed his eyes, letting his warmth seep into him, surround him. Enfold him. “G’night, love.”

“Goodnight, John,” Sherlock muttered, and John could feel him drifting off into a deep sleep seconds before it carried him off, too. Outside, the wind hummed, blowing out through the town and away over the hills – leaving them be, here in their sanctuary.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Your comments are always appreciated <3.


End file.
